


where the line ends, where our hearts stop

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic, Drug Addiction, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Recreational Drug Use, They own a farm, retired heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23788810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Light is filtering through green. Leaves. Sunlight. Steve giggles, leaves. He likes their shape. And the way the gold specks come through them. He reaches and tries to grab some. His arm is heavy, but it moves like… like… cool. water.All over his skin is soda pop fizz and his veins are sparklers. He is flying and the ground is cradling him.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 11
Kudos: 21





	where the line ends, where our hearts stop

Tony finds the boxes, and discards them almost immediately. “Useless, based on the data results. Some kind of fancy Hydra Super Cocaine-LSD-Heroine Hybrid, but according to this they never did get it right. Funny though,” he pauses, pointing to some string of numbers, graphs, things that only make sense to Tony. “This data, the origin of this stuff, isn’t Hydra.” He squints, and then shrugs. “Always knew those nutcases were stealing. Makes sense they’d’ve tried to get in on the drug market. Icy Murder! Any insight?”

Bucky scowls at the nickname but shrugs. “Vague. Might’ve attempted one test. Results useless for Soldiers.” He pauses a moment, head cocked slightly and eyes staring off the way he does when he’s searching for a memory. Like a robot scanning data. Kinda creepy. “Lethal to non -enhanced. Pleasurable to enhanced in proper doses.”

Bucky does a weird shiver thing, one of those they’ve all learned associated with memories he doesn't like. “Pleasureable to enhanced in the worst way.” 

Bucky doesn’t expand and no one asks him too. 

Steve keeps quiet, in part because no one has asked him anything. 

In part because he  _ knows _ why that data info caught Tony’s attention.

He stays silent though, and Natasha eyes him critically, and he gives her a tired shrug.

“Let's go home then,” he tells the team.

-

Steve mostly stops thinking about the warehouse and the boxes of iridescent powder. He mostly doesn’t, just because they’re busy and the word is always dying. He’s always trying to resuscitate it. But sometimes, when he’s alone with his thoughts, when Bucky snores beside him, half under him, he can’t  _ stop _ thinking about it. 

Howard Stark was a good man, as far as Steve knows. As far as he knew him. A scientist, so a little funky in the head, but a Good Man.

He’s stopped fighting Tony on this point.

He tries not to remember the grey edges of the man who gave him everything. But he also thinks about the one night he can’t remember. One night in all of his super soldier years that is nothing but soda fizz under his skin and starburst paint flecks in his eyes. 

Howard had asked, “You ever have any fun, Son?”

Had asked, “Wanna try something? Just once? Something no one else can anyway?”

Thing is, Steve’s always been a good boy. Even when he was fighting, he was fighting for the good cause. 

“You’re still good, Son. This? This is…. it’s science. It’s testing your limits,” Howard had grinned. And he’d grinned pretty, too. Tony got that from his father. That eye-gleam devil’s smile. 

The powder had made his gums numb and tasted a little like the cheap charcoal Bucky bought him once. But damn if he couldn’t remember anything but  _ Euphoria.  _

After though, Steve felt all of five foot and on death’s door once more and Howard never spoke about it again. Never offered it again.

Steve hadn’t thought about that night in decades.

-

Steve lingers in Tony’s workshop sometimes. Neither of them sleep well these days. Somedays no one is sure if either of them ever did. Tony’s body is getting old and he hurts. Steve’s mind is getting old and he wanders. 

“What’d’ya thinks gonna happen to that powder?” He asks one night. 

Tony has been tinkering on SI tech, some kinda pad thing focused on accessibility. He’s barely paying Steve any attention. “Probably last longer than humans. Assuming no one else has piles of ancient Hydra maps and finds it.” 

Steve nods. Tony tinkers for a long while afterwards and then he sets down his wrench. “Why?”

Steve shrugs, chewing the side of his thumb. “Wondering if we should dispose of it somehow. Make sure it doesn’t fall into civilian hands.”

Tony’s chair squeals as he spins in, hands behind his head and eyes on the ceiling. “Dunno, Steve. That’s… I mean, we knew where it was and it was  _ still _ damn near impossible to find. Only people stumbling across it are looking for it, and they probably know what they’re looking for.”

“We didn’t,” Steve argues gently.

Tony stops spinning to look at him. “Steve, it’s not world ending and we just don’t have time.”

“I do,” Steve tells him. He hands Tony the paperwork and Tony’s whole body sags. He looks.

Steve winces. He looks  _ ancient _ in a way Steve and Bucky damn well might never. “You saw this coming,” he tells Tony gently.

“Always figured I’d be one of the first,” Tony says. 

Steve doesn’t have a response. 

“Bucky going with you?”    
Steve hands him the second pack.

-

“Farm.” 

“Yes.” Steve tries to mimic Bucky’s grunt. But he’s giggling a little. “C’mon Buck! You always wanted a farm! You wanted to grow, what was it? Beans and rutabaga and squash?”

“Rhubarb,” Bucky corrects. “And that was a whole freaking life time ago. A couple, in fact.”

Steve eyes him carefully, but he’s smiling. Bucky’s frown is still in place, but he’s already mapping out plots and got his fingers itching the way they do when they wanna play in the dirt. “We can get chickens and goats, too, maybe,” Steve adds.

“Farm.” Bucky grunts again. But it’s a pleased noise, and he reaches for Steve’s hand.

It’s too late to plant beans, even the quick-grow snap peas. But they spend three weeks following the stacks of almanacs and planters guides Bucky has, prepping the ground and tilling. 

Buck buys some truly horrible fertilizer that Steve is convinced is just  _ cow dung _ . 

“Shuddup and work,” Bucky sighs. “Or better yet, go for a run.”

Steve takes off before Bucky can change his mind. 

Georgia is…

Hot and muggy. Full of gnats and churches and liquor stores. 

Full of sketchy warehouses not on maps because the south ain’t nearly as progeressive as they like to pretend. 

Steve feels the smallest bit of guilt as he rounds the woods behind their place. It’ll take him an hour or so to find what he’s looking for. Reasonable enough for a long run. Maybe.

Steve picks up the pace, fighting the branches and underbrush until he gets to a place where the trees grow in lines too neat to be natural. He slows his pace, then stops completely, counting steps in his mind until he finds one tree that's a lot older than the ones around it. He circles the tree a few times, studying the rocks and then he picks at one that’s a little bit off color compared to the ones around it. Lifting it reveals a handle and Steve moves rubble until the door is revealed.

After that, it’s just a matter of dropping into the tunnel, following the trail until he finds boxes of dark, iridescent powder that smells faintly of chemicals and charcoal. Steve hesitates. This is Hydra’s stash. A far cry from the soft, sooty mixture Howard cooked up. It’s a little silty-er in feel, a little thicker in color. But Bucky said it was  _ pleasurable _ . 

_ Just a little, _ he thinks. He takes the bags out of his pocket, scooping the fine powder into them carefully with gloved hands.  _ Just a few _ .

He pauses with his pockets full, eyeing the stuff.  _ Just a taste. _

Steve peels off a glove and tries to remember the paperwork he saw on Tony’s desk. Tries to think about that night forever ago.

All he remembers is how it smelled and how numb his gums went. On a gamble he’s pretty certain of, Steve drags a finger through the powder and lifts it to his nose. There’s not enough for a strong inhale, so he scoops more and rubs it into his gums. 

He waits a few minutes, unsure of how long this stuff takes. 

After ten, he figures maybe it is defunct or something and starts making his way back out.

Steve is half way back to the farm, back to Bucky, when he suddenly feels simultaneously light and heavy, and drops to the ground, sitting with his legs splayed before him like a child.

-

Light is filtering through green. Leaves. Sunlight. Steve giggles,  _ leaves.  _ He likes their shape. And the way the gold specks come through them. He reaches and tries to grab some. His arm is heavy, but it moves like… like…  _ cool. water. _

All over his skin is soda pop fizz and his veins are sparklers. He is  _ flying  _ and the ground is cradling him. 

He giggles again. His mom used to cradle him. But it didn’t feel this nice. Every blade of grass is seductive and Steve needs  _ more _ . He sheds the fabric stopping the soda fizz, gets to the skin beneath and when his nails scrap his hips his whole body sparks. 

Oh.

_ Pleasurable. _

Steve runs his hands over his skin and his hands are rough. Calloused. They make the soda fizz dance and it  _ tickles _ and he’s  _ giggling. _

And then he touches himself  _ down there _ . It’s better than anything he’s ever felt. His heart is humming and he keeps touching, grips himself hard and fast. 

His hand isn’t his own anymore. He doesn’t know  _ whose _ it is, but it is so much better. He lifts his hips up, chasing the silk skin, the insane worth.

Time means nothing. He is a thousand lifetimes in a breath. As the hand goes up, the universe explodes into being. The hand goes down and the universe sighes out. 

Steve doesn’t know how long it takes but the soda fizz in his skin explodes over, a geyser of white spurting like lava over his belly and it is nothing and everything. 

Steve drags a wondrous finger through the pooling lava. He brings it to his lips and the bitter, salty taste is so heavy on his tongue it’s like stepping into a cold shower all of a sudden. He laughs. loud in his ears and the gold flakes above him have gone burnt and there’s feathers dancing between them. 

Steve closes his eyes, everything in hum numbing out, leaving him empty. Leaving his skin feeling chaffed and dried out and his mouth fuzzy.

-

When Steve’s head feels almost normal again, he’s sticky. Sweaty. Covered in leaves and dirt and the skies are so purple it’s almost dark. “Shit.” 

He dresses quickly and takes off running, too fast to avoid stumbling and branches and when he bursts back onto his land, it’s almost like being asthmatic again, the way his chest expands, desperate for air he can’t suck in. 

Bucky’s sitting on their steps and he eyes the muck on Steve, the guilty flush in his cheeks. “You gettin’ sick or somethin’?”

“Or something,” Steve mutters. He doesn’t want to share this with Bucky. He’s not sure why. Only knows that Bucky wouldn’t like it. 

“Gonna shower,” Steve says, still breathless.

Bucky eyes him, then he nods. “I’ll put burgers on.”

Steve stops by their room on his way to the bath, and he kicks open the trunk Bucky respectfully doesn’t dig through. It’s mostly empty, Steve only keeps it because Bucky has a lot of private spaces and needed to feel like they were equals. He pushes aside a quilt from his Ma and an old sketch book, and sets the bags inside, then covers them with the quilt. 

He makes his shower quick as possible, but it’s hard. He can’t remember being this tired. Not since he got big. Not even after all of the battles he fought. After years of worrying about who was and wasn’t alive.

He makes it back down in a reasonable amount of time, he thinks. Bucky is plating up burgers loaded with cheese and mustard, lettuce and tomatoes on a platter beside them. He sets them on the table and takes his seat. He’s kind enough to wait for Steve to fall into his own chair before he asks, “So we gonna talk about whatever you’re hiding?”

Steve picks up a burger and adds tomatoes. “No.”

Bucky’s fork snaps in half. He doesn’t ask again though, not even after he gets a second one and they’ve finished the pile of meat.

-

Steve is good. He spends his days sweating with Bucky in the fields, planting seeds and pulling weeds. They decide to make a run of the crops before they try animals, but Steve has already found the perfect spot for some coops. He’s toying with a back plot, thinking of fencing it up for goats, but he’s not sold on the location yet. Bucky seems not to care, but that's just his apprehension about this first year.

Most evenings, Steve spends out on the porch, helping Bucky cook or watching the fireflies or just listening to the crickets. He sleeps in the bed with Bucky, curled around them, and he  _ doesn’t _ think about the silky powder in the trunk under them, or the way his skin felt or the  _ hunger _ in his belly. 

Bucky fucks him sometimes, slow and perfect, teeth on Steve’s shoulder and hands in his hair. 

It’s not the same though. Something is…

Steve  _ loves _ Bucky. He has always loved Bucky, and that hasn’t, won’t, can’t change. But everything in him feels muted. 

Bucky doesn’t say anything, but he also stops offering. Steve doesn’t offer either, and it becomes another secret stashed in his box. 

-

“Gotta run into town.” 

Steve glances up at Bucky. “Okay. Now or later?”

Bucky grunts. “Alone, Steve.”

Steve sits up a little straighter. “Wait, what?” 

It’s not that they haven’t done things seperate. But they spend most of their time together, and neither of them runs into town alone. They don’t leave the farm often, so it’s nice to get out like that. 

Bucky’s metal plates shift and he chews the egg in his mouth until it’s gotta be nothing. “Surprise.”

Steve nods slowly. “Okay. But uh, I thought you wanted to water the back plot or something today?”

Bucky snorts. “No. It rained yesterday. We were going to weed.”

“Again?” Steve asks aghast. 

Bucky shrugs. “Farmin’ is a lot of work, Stevie boy. Anyway. Don’t worry about it, because I don’t trust you to know the good from the bad.” 

Steve gives him an appropriately affronted look, but doesn’t disagree. “Want me to do anything while you’re gone?” 

“Chop wood.” 

Steve gives him another affronted look, because he’s realized that’s Bucky’s code for ‘Keep Steve busy and out of trouble.’

They have enough chopped wood for three Ice Ages, minimum.

“Yeah, whatever. Keep your secrets,” Steve grumbles. 

“You too,” Bucky says back. He finishes eating and leaves, and Steve realizes Bucky effectively avoided telling him anything useful.

-

Steve keeps himself busy running and working on some stuff around the house. He even gets out his paints, but he doesn’t paint anything. By lunch, he’s bored out of his mind and Bucky is ignoring his calls. 

Finally he goes into their bedroom and opens his chest. He prods at a bag and he’s thinking. Last time… 

Bucky could come back at any point. But Steve is a little more prepared this time. He’s got an old palette and he pours a bit out. It’s pretty, the way the light catches the flecks of color in the powder, and part of him wonders if it should concern him. It doesn’t. 

He lines it up in a long line. For some reason, the black fissure on the wooden palette makes him pause in a way that the inky pools inside the boxes didn’t. 

He feels drunk. As close to drunk as he ever has. 

Steve stops letting himself think and he tilts the palette and inhales deeply. He runs his fingers through the residue left and rubs it across his gums, waiting for the tingly numbness.

_ Wait, _ he thinks. 

He climbs onto their bed, over the covers. He strips his shirt off and waits, watching the sunlight filter through the flimsy, gauzy curtains Bucky picked out.

Thinking about Bucky makes his skin warm, makes his cheeks prick. He finds himself grinning, so wide it should hurt. He pokes at his cheeks and then pauses when his head flops to the side, finger still pressed into his cheek. 

There are specks in the light-rays. Little bits of stuff floating, gleaming. Like stars in the daylight. Reverse stars. 

It makes him a little sad. The way the specks take the sun. He runs his hands through them, creating rivers of darkness that steal the light away. 

“Tingly,” he mumbles to the room. His voice is loud, swelling. Their sheets are nice. Soft. He likes the way the comforter rubs against his back and he rolls over, buries his face into the worn fabric. It smells like metal and oil. Like sweat. 

It’s nice. Makes the fizzy-pop of his skin, the heavy led in his blood feel softer. Soothing instead of sharp. 

He’s not exactly sure when his hips start rutting, but the fabric of his shorts, of his boxers is all wrong. All coarse. He shucks them off as best he can, digging through the liquid air to move the material. 

The quilt is like heaven on his cock, but not nearly as good as the palm that finds its way down there. 

Steve cries out, a little surprised at the sudden burst of warm flesh on warm flesh, and then he laughs. 

It burbbles out of him, high pitched and too loud, and he can’t stop laughing. Shaking. He’s fuzzy all over and the sun is too many colors and he’s the best kind of warm. His face is wet, and when his nails finally find his cheeks he’s… he’s crying?

“‘M no sad though,” he tells the air. 

He pushes down, and then he remembers how nice the comforter feels against his dick. So nice, he doesn’t even try to stop himself, rutting until the same soda fizz gurgles back over, and he’s laying in a cooling puddle of his own spend.

Steve lays there for a long time, the sun warm on his skin and the bed growing cold and sticky beneath him. 

In his head, he can see the constellations forming. The stars are dancing, disjointed tangos that loop to a nice jazz song that pops a little. The stars are dancing and they’re spinning. 

And then they’re spinning too fast and his head is heavy, His mouth is cotton and the fizzy-pop on his skin isn’t tingling but a million pinprick needles digging into his veins.

He’s  _ tired _ , and his bones are ancient. “Nap,” he tells the air.

A little nap, and he’ll wake up and clean up.

-

Bucky startles him. Steve jerks up. It’s dark outside and he feels disgusting all over. A little nauseated too, which he can’t explain. 

“Steve!” Bucky says, sharp concern and a hand to his forehead. “You sick? Don’t remember the last nap you took. When’d you pass out?”

“Urgh,” Steve tells him because he doesn't know. 

The powder,  _ Pleasurable _ , he’s started calling it, it bends time. Speeds it up and slows it down all at once. “Time’z’it?”

“‘Bout 9,” Bucky says. “Listen, you’re kinda… well, you’re sweaty, but you don’t feel feverish? Naked too. Steve are you,” Bucky hesitates. 

“Little queasy,” Steve tells him. “Got too hot maybe. Forgot to drink.” It’s kind of true. 

“When’d you last eat?” Bucky demands. 

“Breakfast.” 

Bucky cusses under his breath. He tells Steve, “You know you can't go that long without food!” Steve is forced to listen as Bucky stomps downstairs. He can hear a lot of noises, plates and knives. Smells garlic and mustard and onion, and it’s all making him feel sicker than before. He wants to tell Bucky to stop but it’ll give him away.

He goes to roll over and the world goes with him. But he needs to clean up. He drags the quilt off the bed and wets a corner with some water on the side table and wipes his belly off. 

By the time he’s gotten the quilt in the hamper and put shorts back on he’s exhausted. He grabs Bucky’s extra blanket and wraps up in it.

He hears Bucky come back in and he knows he’s trying to feed him, but Steve smacks his hand away. “Just tired.”

-

They don’t talk about it the next morning, even though Steve can tell Bucky is desperate too. Steve tries. Tries to be good, be better. Be everything everyone has always thought he was. 

He works hard in the fields, following Bucky’s instructions. Slowly they watch the way the earth changes, the trees’ leaves reflecting weeks of hard work. He’s nice to him at night. He holds him tight, curls around him and fucks him like he means it. 

Bucky takes it, takes everything Steve is giving him, and they’re both pretending it’s normal. It’s okay. 

Steve makes his lines a lot smaller, and he waits until Bucky’s passed out and snoring to even think about it. 

It’s enough, the brief moments. It’s enough, the way the crickets scream in his ears and the evening air whispers against his skin. He likes visiting the stars. Sometimes they let him dance with them, and he  _ tries _ . 

He hums quietly, singing their song and uses a lead finger to paint them into a new shape. He writes Bucky’s love into the stars over and over, and sometimes, when Bucky wakes up, sleep drunk Steve tries to show him. 

“See them? See they dance for you, Buck,” Steve tells him.

In the morning, he doesn’t remember much, except for the  _ feeling _ of floating and being weighed down all together. His head aches and his mouth tastes wrong and Bucky keeps asking him, “You okay?”

-

Steve knows what an addict looks like. He worked with Sam sometimes, before he quit. So he knows to be careful. Knows not to give in every time his skin craves. Everytime his feet are floating above the sky but his head is buried in the dirt. Bucky tells him he’s losing weight, so Steve tries to eat more. 

Bucky says his skin is looking grey, so Steve uses some creams on a recommendation from Natasha.

He’s trying, outside. The harvest has mostly come in, all good crops and Bucky is pleased. He’s beautiful, in the fading sun, digging up rows and rows of yellow squash. Sometimes Bucky catches him looking, and he smiles. “Paint a picture, Steve, hear they last longer.”

“Not with us,” Steve answers back dutifully.

Sometimes Bucky looks like he believes the answer. And sometimes Steve’s bones are still ancient and his mouth still numb and Bucky looks like Steve has whipped him with that answer.

-

The cold comes in slowly, slow enough that Steve doesn’t even notice at first. He doesn’t notice it until Bucky comes in from the fields, and finds him shivering in the bedroom. 

“Jesus, Steve! The hell are you playing at?” Bucky tuts about pulling on socks and flannels. He’s staring at Steve though, confusion and worry in crystal eyes. 

Steve knows why; he’s drenched in sweat and shaking. His muscles are cramping. Steve ain’t much for gambling, but he’d bet at least half his fortune his pupils are dilated. “‘M sorry,” Steve mumbles. “‘M so soreh Buck,” he slurs out. 

‘Cause Bucky has to know. 

Steve can’t remember the last time he was out there mulching or whatever Bucky’s been doing since they pulled the harvest. 

Steve’s stash is also running low, and he didn’t fill small bags. “Sorry, sorry,” Steve keeps saying. He’s trying to mean it, too. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky is rumbling in his ear. Steve shivers with it, feels it like a truck in his guts. “I’ll call Stark. Maybe,” Bucky hesitates. “Maybe it’s the serum.”

It’s not. It’s  _ not _ , and Bucky has to know. 

But if he doesn’t, Steve won’t tell him. It’s better that way.

“S’pretty anyway.” Steve tells the shadows dancing in his lashes. The stars are gone now, the high fading. The shadows hurt, but, “Bucky’s so pretty. So pretty ‘n too good for me.”

-

Stark shows up in a whirlwind of money and privilege. He walks into the bedroom, takes one look at Steve, and orders Bucky out.

“Ain’t leavin’ him,” Bucky growls. 

Tony opens his mouth to start a fight but Steve waves a limp hand. “It’s alright Buck. Go check your plants.”

“Ain’t nothing growing, Steve. Frost is hitting,” Bucky sasses. 

Steve shoots him a hard glare and Bucky returns it. Tony for his part looks amused, annoyed, and turned on. 

Bucky storms out, slamming the backdoor hard enough Steve’s gonna have to repair the screen. Again. 

“So what is it?” Tony demands. 

Steve opens his mouth to deny everything, but Tony raises a hand. 

“Hi, Tony Stark. Alcohol, Coke.” Tony eyes him angrily. “Point being, Stevie boy. Addict recognizes addict.”

“Not an addict,” Steve corrects. 

“Whatever you want to call it? You have a problem. What are you using? What can even do this,” Tony emphatically waves a hand at Steve, “to a Super Soldier?”

“S’nothing,” Steve says. He’s sleepy. He’s cold too. It’s not a feeling he’s super accustomed too, not anymore. “Don’t need you, Tony. M’fine.”

“Really? Do you even  _ hear _ yourself golden boy?” Tony demands. “Whatever. Don’t answer that. When was your last hit?”

Steve skin bubbles a little. “I’m fine, Tony. There is no ‘hit’ or anything. Bucky’s being paranoid. You’re being rude.”

Tony tilts his head down, lowers his sunglasses to really look at Steve. “Don’t, Steve. Don’t do this to Bucky. He deserves  _ better _ .”

“Pepper and Rhodey deserve better,” Steve growls. 

Tony steps back. “Yeah, I know. But the thing is, they stuck around to see the other side. Bucky? I don’t know that he will. I don’t know that he _ should _ .” 

“End of the line,” Steve howls at him.

Tony pushes his sunglasses back up. “Exactly, Steve. I’ll see you when this falls apart. If you survive, God willing.”

-

Bucky  _ bitches _ after Stark leaves. “Goddamn punk. He won’t tell me shit. ‘He’s fine.’ Stark doesn’t know shit. ‘He’ll tell you when he’s ready.’ Goddamn asshole. ‘Nothing you can do.’ As if I ain’t spent all my time keeping you alive.”

Steve stays as quiet as he can, pushing peas around on his plate. Bucky sees it, misreads the situation and plies Steve with slices of tomato and a heaping spoonful of yams. Steve scrunches his nose up.

“Shut up, Steve. It’s  _ good _ for you,” Bucky hisses. 

“You’re the farmer. You eat the crop,” Steve says. 

“I didn’t grow the yams, moron.”

And like that, it’s almost normal. Steve forces a decent amount of food down, swallows around the bile burning in his throat. 

“Movie?” Steve asks as they’re cleaning up. He’s trying to hide the way his hands are shaking in the suds. Wants to hide his exhaustion. It’s too early to go to sleep. 

It’s too early to dig through his chest. 

Bucky grins at him, whistling a tune Steve almost remembers as he dries. “Yeah, okay. You rent that new  _ Furious  _ film? Or we doin’ a documentary?”

Steve shrugs, “You’re choice.” 

He says it like he’s bored, but Bucky must hear something because he deflates a little. “We don’t gotta Stevie, if you’re still… tired.”

Steve turns to him and grins. “No it’s fine, I’m fine. I just know you don’t really like the documentaries. Besides, winter doesn’t ever have good ones.”

Bucky watches him for a long time, and then he turns back to the bowl in his hand. “Yeah, okay. Wanna see Vin Diesel anyway.” There’s less gleam in his voice, so Steve flicks suds at him and smiles bright enough it hurts.

They settle on the couch, a bowl of popcorn Steve is praying Bucky eats alone. The movie starts and Steve tries to focus. He’s still cold though, hasn’t been able to warm up since Bucky stormed in and Tony showed up. 

Bucky notices. He grabs the blanket off the rocker and quietly wraps it around them, presses close to Steve. It’s almost like old times, with Steve laying between Bucky’s legs, Bucky’s pressed against a couch arm. Only now Steve’s almost too big to press against Bucky’s chest. 

Still, it’s nice, the way their hands interlock, Bucky’s fingers stroking over Steve’s.

“Jesus, sit still,” Bucky growls in his ears.

It does funny things to Steve, makes his groin heavy and his skin flush. He shifts again, and learns it’s doing funny things to  _ Bucky  _ too. 

“Hey,” Steve says. 

“Sh,” Bucky responds.

“Wanna watch this in the morning?” 

“You that tired?” Bucky asks alarmed. 

Steve brings a hand up to his mouth and bites gently and Bucky’s palm. “Nah, but I can think of much better ways to spend the evening.”

He’s not lying. And it’s  _ good _ . As good as it used to be. Bucky writhes beneath Steve, makes little biting noises, scrapes markes down Steves back that  _ might _ last ‘till first light. Bucky comes, hard and loud, and collapses against the sheets. 

Steve grins down at him and reaches for his phone. 

“No,” Bucky groans. “No pictures!”

“Gonna paint you like this some day,” Steve says. But he puts the phone down and collapses onto Bucky. 

“Steve, we gotta clean,” Bucky says.

“Comfortable,” Steve says, biting at Bucky’s clavicle.

“Okay,” Bucky relents. “Just a moment.”

-

Steve wakes with a start. Birds are screaming outside of their window. Steve  _ hates _ the birds. Sure. they’re a sign of warmer weather and new planting and whatever else. 

But they’re also loud as fucking fuck.

Bucky is snoring beneath him, arms wrapped around Steve’s waist. They shouldn’t fit quite the way they do. so tight Bucky’s wrist overlap. Steve breaks out of the hold, watches a snoring Bucky snuff in his sleep and roll over, grabbing a pillow to hold. 

Steve’s skin itches. His brain is rattling in his skull like a half-cracked marble and he needs to get the train back on it’s wheels. Or something.

He slips out of bed, scrapes his chest as quiet as he can across the floor. It’s easy to grab an almost empty bag and sneak out onto the porch. He dumps it into his palm and snorts it. Almost immediately he sneezes, but he manages to clench his fist tight. 

He licks the dust off his hand and settles into the rocker. 

Time bends. The moon wobbles in the sky, blinking and winking at Steve, and he tries to blink back. He smiles at it bright and cheery, and says hey to the sun trying to drown out the moon. 

“Dance?” Steve asks. 

He’s swept off his feet by ice, and his palms sizzle. He grins, whoops into the empty night. Steve spins until he’s dizzy and the stars are trying to hold him up. “Sing it?” Steve says.

“What?”

“Sing the song from before.”

It’s an old lullabye. Something dark. Something about men in the night and stars that eat. Steve lifts his finger and he traces the constellations. He bends them, until they’re nothing but star shaped stars. 

It’s so dumb he falls down laughing. And then the sun wakes him up. It’s high over his head, heavy as a goddamn mortar shell and just as hot, and he’s crying. The sun is shouting at him, and it’s using Bucky’s voice and it’s so  _ angry. _

Steve puts his hands over his ears and shuts his eyes and waits to feel the fizzy-pop again.

-

Bucky starts sleeping in the guest room after that. He won’t talk to Steve, not about “the sickness”, as he calls it.

Steve thinks he’s being ridiculous, and he tells him. “It’s nothing, Bucky. I’m fine.”

“Shut up and dig,” Bucky says. 

Steve wipes his sleeve under his nose, sneezing at the pollen.  _ Just the pollen _ . He digs a little and then he says, “This is stupid Buck.” 

“You’re stupid,” Bucky says, slamming his metal fist into damp earth. “You’re up to something or coming down with something or  _ on _ something. But like always you’re too stupid or too stubborn to ask for help.”

“I’m fine,” Steve growls. “You worry too much. You always have.”

Bucky rears back like Steve slapped him. “Go away, Steve,” Bucky says quietly. 

“I didn’t mean it,” Steve tries. “I didn’t-”

“Yeah, you never do.”

Bucky brushes his hands off and stands up, staring at the rows he still needs to work. “Go away Steve. I need some time.”

Steve stands up, a little surprised. He cannot remember a single time Bucky had asked him to go away. Not even the time He left Bucky alone with the crazy Sawyer twins and almost got him arrested. “You don’t…”

Bucky cuts him off. “Now, Steve.”

-

Steve paces the bedroom. He needs- 

He  _ wants _ to play in  _ Pleasurable _ . 

But Bucky’s so upset he’s not sure it’s a brilliant idea. “Just a taste,” he tells the empty room. He’ll just press a little under his tongue. A  _ taste _ .

But when he gets out his chest, digs through it there’s  _ nothing _ . 

“No,” Steve tells the walls. “No!”

“No what?” Bucky asks behind him.

Steve whirls around, “Oh, uh.” 

“Steve?” Bucky asks. He’s walking towards Steve like Steve’s some kind of wounded creature. 

“Nothing, nothing. Never mind. Lunch?” Steve asks. He’s talking too fast, the cracked bead in his brain bouncing wildly. 

Bucky gives him that pinched look again, but he keeps his concerns to himself. “Yeah, okay. What do you want?”

“Let’s keep it simple. Soup?” Steve asks. They still have soup. Should. 

“Yeah okay, I’ll uh,” Bucky hesitates in the doorway. 

“Go on,” Steve tells him. “I’ll be just a moment. Gonna get socks.” He points at his feet where he’s already wearing a thin pair, thankful he’s always gotten cold toes. 

Bucky’s smile softens and he says, “Okay old man.”

As soon as Bucky’s boots clatter down the stairs Steve slams the traitorous chest shut and pulls on a thick pair of chartreuse socks that are actually Buckys.

By the time he reaches the table, two steaming bowls of jambalaya are set on the table, along with thick, lumpy loaves of brown bread and some butter. “Looks good, Buck,” Steve says gently. 

Bucky smiles at him.

Steve is ravenous for once, and he rips bread, dunking huge chunks into the stew. “S’good, Buck.” Steve says.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Bucky laughs. “I told you I knew how to make it.”

Steve has three bowls before the nausea hits and he has to stop. 

Bucky’s pleased grin is good though, and they settle on the couch to watch a movie. “You sure we don’t need to be out there?” 

Bucky kisses under Steve's ear, “It can wait a day, Steve. Let’s just enjoy this.”

Steve snuggles back into him, warmth at his back and in his belly. It’s the most present he’s felt in months, and he kinda likes it, despite the growing pin prick itch beneath his skin.

-

Bucky’s “It” really only waits a day. Steves ‘It” waits two weeks and a day. And Steve? He’s almost proud of himself. He  _ is _ proud of himself. Except Bucky doesn’t know Steve has an “it.” Except Steve is fucking crawling with want. He feels like he’s rolled in hay, he’s got a million ant bites. A thousand heat soaked needles digging into his pores. He’s wearing the fuckin’ bed-bug ridden scratchy blanket from the year of pnemonia and no amount of scratching, of calomine, of aloe vera can sooth it.

He ain’t got a problem or nothing, but  _ god _ , if he could just float for a minute or two.

Ain’t a problem, he doesn’t  _ need _ to float. That is the difference between him and the addicts. Want and need.

Bucky frowns at him. Frowns so hard that Steve uses dirt coated fingers to push at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t get dirt in my beard, Steve. And stop thinking so damn hard. You’re messing up those holes.”

Steve stops and gives Bucky a flat look. “Bucky,” he says. “Bucky, how in the hell does someone mess up a  _ hole _ .”

Bucky pinches his nose and waves metal fingers through the air. Steve is distracted for a second, imagining silver, glitter soaked trails. 

“What?”

Bucky gives him a queer look. “They’re too close, Stevie. God, just…”

Steve waits. “Go for a fucking run or something.” 

Steve doesn’t hesitate. He pops up, frowning at the rush in his head. It takes him a moment to catch his balance, but he does, and he kisses Bucky’s cheek. “I’m going to go change. See you for dinner?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky tells him.

Steve does go inside, and slip into shorts and his sneakers. Then he goes to his chest. He grabs the empty, dust coated bags and slips them into his pockets, absently tying the waistband of the shorts. 

It won’t take him long, he knows. He’ll just run there, fill up, and run back. He won’t even stop for a taste. 

“I don’t  _ need _ it,” he tells himself. 

He doesn’t need it. But goddamn does he want it.

-

By the time he makes his descent, Steve is exhausted. He’s drenched in sweat and his muscles are aching. He’s got cramps in his calves and his thighs. When he puts his hand to his chest it’s like his heart is trying to beat right through his sternum. 

He leans over, even though he knows better, and he tries not to heave onto the ground.

The sky is darker than it should be, and there are black spots in his eyes.

When he's calm though, when he can breathe, he kicks the rocks out of his way and goes down.

“Smarter,” Steve tells himself. “You’re a goddamn national hero, and you  _ can _ wait a little longer. All day, if need be.”

He makes quick work scooping the powder and he doesn’t lick his fingers at the end. He’s good, and he doesn’t need it.

He isn’t shaking either, and the cold isn’t seeping into everything he is. 

When he climbs back out, he’s surprised the sun is nothing but purple and orange hues.

That’s why he’s shaky. He’s hungry.

He runs halfway back, but his lungs are empty and his skin somewhere between hot and cold.

He’s seeing more than spots by the time he stumbles back through the trees and sees Bucky on the porch.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Bucky says as soon as Steve gets close.

“I ran farther than I thought, it was a long trek back,” Steve lies.

Bucky clearly doesn’t believe him, but he lets it go. “C’mon. We can go into town for dinner.”

Steve nods, and then he says, “Just let me shower, put my pack away.”

Bucky eyes the backpack, too large to fit just water, but he turns and says, “I should change too anyway.”

-

Steve showers, lets the water pound against his skin and sucks in greedy breaths. He doesn’t remember a time when he hurt this much. Not since he shot up and bulked up. Just lifting his arms to shampoo feels like a chore and he almost considers skipping it, except for the mud staining the bottom of their tub.

He finishes, and pulls on a pair of jeans and a soft sweater. Thank God the evenings are still cool.

Bucky eyes the brown sweater. “Is that,” he starts but doesn’t finish. 

Steve doesn’t know what he was going to ask, and he’s too tired to guess. “The Shack?” He asks instead.

“Or Maybell,” Bucky suggests. 

Steve shakes his head, “Not really in the mood for that many ladies pinching our cheeks.”

Bucky nods, “Yeah, me neither.”

-

The shack is a nice little place, mismatched chairs and sticky table tops. They serve the biggest plates of fried chicken with mashed potatoes and butter soaked biscuits. They also have tea so sweet it makes Steve’s teeth ache, but Bucky guzzles it down like water.

Steve picks at his biscuit, ripping the roll apart and dragging it through his gravy. He sips his coffee and then pushes it towards Bucky. 

“You okay, Stevie?” Bucky asks as he takes the mug.

“Yeah,” Steve grunts. 

He picks at the table and grimaces at the gunk on his nail. His foot skids across the slick tile. 

“You sure?” Bucky pushes. “You’re kinda twitchy, and I didn’t even trick you into a date.”

“I said I’m fine!” Steve snaps.

Bucky raises his hand and stares at Steve in surprise. “Okay, Steve. Alright.”

The rest of the meal is quiet. Steve shoves his plate away from him and waits for Bucky to finish. As soon as Bucky sets his fork down, Steve drops too many bills onto the table. 

“C’mon. I’m tired.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything as he follows.

-

Steve can’t sleep. Nothing is wrong, nothing he can put his finger on, but he feels icky. He’s sweaty and shivery, too hot under the flannel blanket and too cold in the evening air. 

By the time he climbs out of bed and checks in on Bucky, his  _ teeth _ are aching with some unnamable itch. 

All he wants is to float. He wants to float with Bucky, under the sun, but he knows that’s a dream even for him. He goes back up and grabs a bag, foregoing the pallette. 

He’s done this enough time to know how to eyeball it. 

The pile of silky black in his hand is beautiful, silvery flecks shining in the moonlight. He doesn’t admire it for long. He snorts it, as much as he can. Then he licks his palm, tracing every last speck of black, floaty pleasure.

He’s Steve fuckin’ Rogers, and he’s not stupid, so he quietly closes the door to their home and makes his way to the barn. It’s all stumbly steps and a twisted ankle, but then he lays in the hay and waits. 

There are cracks in the wood slates, cracks he was meant to mud over. But he always kinda liked the way the sun and moon broke through them.

Even now, heavy, silvery beams break the overwhelming dark. Specks of hay and dust dance in them, caught in swirls of evening light. 

It’s wrong though. 

Steve is supposed to be floating. He’s supposed to be up there with the dust, guiding them in a dance.

He’s floating, but he’s out of synch. The shadows keep batting him around, twisting their smokey tendrils around his neck and squeezing hard. 

He’s trying to swim into the moon, but the moon won’t let him. 

He can’t  _ breath _ . And it’s worse than any asthma attack of flue ever. His lungs are filled with red clay and bile. The ground is  _ eating  _ him, and he can’t.

His skin is melting off of his bones and his head is a 100 different stories in one. Music bleeds out of his mouth, and all he can see is every face he ever saw die. 

Someone is grabbing his hands, pulling them and pinning them. They’re cutting his face and ripping his nails out and crushing his chest. 

“Steve!”

He pries his eyes open, confused because they had been. He’d seen the red lightning and the burst of blue flames. Bucky’s face swims above him, all wrong.

It’s too long, too old. His cheeks are sharp and his jaw fierce. 

His eyes are so grey they make the moon look white.

“Steve!” Bucky screams at him. 

Steve pushes him off and away, and he curls up on his side, trying to pound the dirt into an escape.

-

Bucky stays beside him until the birds are shrieking and the sun digs into Bucky’s eyelids. 

When Steve finally looks at him, Bucky’s face is empty. He looks…   
Steve’s stomach rolls. He looks like The Asset again.

“Tony’ll be here soon. With Sam.”

“I don’t need,” Steve begins.

“Shut the fuck up, Steve.” Bucky’s face is unreadable, despite the fury in his voice. “Sam is going to help me, because he’s done being Cap. Tony’ll take care of you. I don’t,” Bucky pauses, swallows real hard and closes his eyes. “I don’t know what it’ll look like, Steve. But you can’t be here anymore.”

“You’re kicking me out?” Steve demands.

Bucky throws a bag at him. “You know what this is?”

“No,” Steve lies immediately.

“Yeah, you do.” Bucky pauses, chews his words. “I didn’t want to Steve. I wanted to think you were everything the posters say you were. But I know what this is. Hydra wanted to give us an extra boost, you know?”

Steve opens his mouth, struggling for any excuse but he’s so tired and his head is spinning in half-empty ovals. 

“Don’t. I can see you spinning stories. Just don’t.” Bucky’s metal hand clenches. “They tried. Killed several first. But they never did get it right. They made  _ crates _ of that shit because they went through it so fast testing it. I was the closest they ever got. But you know what Hydra called it?”    
Steve stays quiet this time.

“ _ Breakdown _ . ‘Cause that was it’s ultimate function. Broke down even a supersoldier. We got sick, lost our abilities to function. Made us crazy, made us sick.” Bucky eyes Steve hard. “And we didn’t even care ‘cause it made us feel  _ good _ until it was too late.”

“It’s not like that,” Steve says. 

“Like hell it ain’t, Steve.”

“You can’t do this to me, to us,” he tries desperately.

Bucky shakes his head and now Steve can see his eyes, red rimmed and watery. “I’m not. You already did.”

“You said the end of the line!” Steve says desperately, cling to any shred of hope. 

Bucky spreads his hands. At Steve, at the powder, at everything the farm could’ve been. “Look around pal. Line’s long gone and we’ve been floating in the muck for a while now.”

Steve can hear Tony’s car pulling up and he reaches for Bucky. 

“Shh,” Bucky says quietly. He pushes something towards Steve. A radio like they had in their apartment. Bucky fiddles with the settings, and then some pop song is crackling through the tiny speakers. “Just listen to it, Steve,” Bucky says quietly. He pulls Steve into his arms. 

He holds him like it’s goodbye, and Steve realizes what it was Bucky got on that mystery trip. 

“Please don’t,” Steve begs him.

Bucky doesn’t say a word. He rocks them, and he kisses Steve’s greasy hair and he cries until the barn of the door opens up and Tony’s shoes and Sam’s shoes are all Steve can see.

“Don’t,” Steve tries again.

Bucky lets go and he follows Sam out. 

Tony crouches before him, and his brown eyes are a million different things, but there’s no pity. “C’mon Cap, lets go get better.”

“Bucky,” Steve cries. 

Tony’s eyes, brown pools of a million shades, fracture a little. “He’s gone, Steve. He’s gone.”


End file.
